Chapter 17 - What Vanessa Thought
I almost asked if she was joking.
She wasn’t.
The highway stretched white and dark ahead of us.
“Explain.”
Vanessa swallowed.
“You were the smart one.”
“That didn’t make me the favorite.”
“You got straight A’s. Dad bragged about you to everyone. Grandma treated you like you could do anything.”
“Mom threw you a yacht party.”
“I know.”
“An actual yacht.”
“I know.”
“Do you understand how insane this sounds?”
“Yes.”
She wiped one eye with the back of her hand.
“When I was thirteen, I heard Mom tell Aunt Carol she worried I wasn’t as capable as you.”
I stared at her.
“She said you were independent and I was sensitive.”
“That sounds like Mom.”
“I thought it meant she respected you more.”
“Respect without care is not the prize you think it is.”
Vanessa nodded.
“I know that now.”
The wipers beat faster.
She continued.
“So I got louder.”
“What?”
“I figured if I was going to be the needy one, I’d be really needy.”
I almost smiled despite myself.
“That worked.”
“I know.”
“You trained them.”
“And they trained me.”
That silenced us both.
For years, I had seen Vanessa as someone who happily accepted everything.
Maybe she had.
But acceptance and understanding were not the same.
“I’m not excusing what you did,” I said.
“I know.”
“You took money while knowing something was wrong.”
“I know.”
“You let Mom and Dad treat me like I was selfish for wanting basic things.”
“I know.”
“You said at least people wanted to celebrate you.”
Her face twisted.
“I know.”
“That one may take me a while.”
She nodded quickly.
“I know.”
For once, she didn’t ask me to forgive her.
That helped more than an apology speech would have.
We reached the lake house after midnight.
The property was dark except for one light in the upstairs bedroom.
Mom’s SUV sat near the garage.
Vanessa parked.
Neither of us moved.
“What if she won’t open the door?” she asked.
“I’ll knock louder.”
We crossed through the snow.
I knocked once.
Nothing.
Again.
Then the upstairs light went out.
Vanessa whispered, “She knows we’re here.”
I knocked a third time.
“Mom.”
No answer.
“Open the door.”
Nothing.
Then I heard movement.
Not upstairs.
Behind us.
The detached garage.
A light flicked on inside.
We turned.
Through the small window, I saw Mom standing beside a folding table.
Papers were spread across it.
And next to them sat a metal trash can.
Smoke curled from the top.
“Mom!”
May you like
I ran.
By the time I reached the garage door, she was holding a stack of documents over the flame.
